Sully doesn't jump in with advice or platitudes. He just waits, giving me space to find the words.
"I'm thirty-one," I continue. "Got maybe five good years left in this body if I'm lucky. I don’t want to sound ungrateful, because I know how lucky I am to be paid a small fortune to play a game for a living, and live my dream, but it feels like there has to be more than a big bank account, a highlight reel, and a contacts list full of women whose last names I can't remember?"
"Is this about Sarah?" he asks. "Barnesy mentioned you were seeing someone new."
"Sarah was three weeks ago, and it wasn't serious," I say, not surprised that Sully is keeping tabs on me. "That's kind of the point. None of it's serious. None of it matters."
Sully nods slowly. "So what do you want that would matter?"
The question hits hard. What do I want? Not just one nameless night after another, not just another season of hockey. Something real. Something that would still be there when the cheers fade and the spotlight moves on.
"I don't know," I downplay my feelings. "Something authentic, I guess. A connection that isn't about me being a Blade."
"Hard to find that when you're fishing in the same pond every weekend," Sully points out. "Rush Street clubs aren't exactly known for meaningful connections."
"Thanks for the insight, Dr. Phil," I tease back. He's right, and we both know it.
"Speaking of meaningful connections," Sully says, shifting gears, "PR confirmed you're giving the keynote at the Boys and Girls Club gala next month."
I groan, throwing an arm over my eyes. "Don't remind me. What the hell am I supposed to say to a room full of donors and community leaders? 'Hi, I'm Logan McCoy. I play a game for a living and my biggest contribution to the community is that I’ve spent my life trying to seduce every stunning woman in the greater Chicago area. Who knows, maybe your daughter is one of them.'?"
"You could try something a little more inspirational," Sully suggests dryly. "Maybe focus on your journey from a kid playing pond hockey to team captain. People eat that stuff up."
"People want the sanitized version. The highlight reel. Not the real story."
"What is the real story, Mac?"
I sit up, wincing as my muscles protest. "You know the real story. Kid with a chip on his shoulder and something to prove. Late-round draft pick who worked his ass off to make it. Dad who drank too much and took it out on Mom until I got big enough to stand between them." I pause, the old pain still sharp when I let myself feel it. "Not exactly the feel-good speech they're looking for."
Sully's eyes soften. "Maybe that's exactly what they need to hear. The real journey. The parts that aren't pretty but made you who you are."
"And who is that, exactly? Because I'm not so sure anymore."
He stands, pacing the small room with the restless energy that made him such a force on the ice. "You're a good man who sometimes makes questionable choices. A leader who's earned the C on his sweater. A friend who would take a bullet for any guy on the team." He stops, fixing me with that captain's stare. "And someone who's outgrown the life he's been living."
The truth stings and it hits me in the chest. I have outgrown it—the endless parade of meaningless nights, the carefully maintained image of Logan McCoy, perpetual bachelor and good-time guy. But what comes next?
"The Boys and Girls Club speech scares the shit out of me," I confess. "Not the speaking part. The responsibility part. Those people will be looking at me like I've got answers, and honestly, it feels like all I've got is questions these days."
"Good," Sully says simply. "Questions mean you're growing. Questions mean you’re thinking and not just doing. Means you're ready for the next chapter."
"I don’t know, Sully. What if I can't be more than this? I’m not sure how to be anything else."
Sully's hand lands on my shoulder, solid and reassuring. "You remember your first NHL game? That hit you took from Lindstrom that rattled your cage so bad you forgot which bench was ours?"
I nod, the memory still vivid—the lights too bright, my vision swimming, the absolute certainty that I was in over my head.
"But you got back up. Found your way. Finished the game stronger than you started it." He squeezes my shoulder. "Same principle applies here. It's just a different kind of challenge. Answer the bell."
I close my eyes, letting his words sink in while I notice the familiar scent of sweat, mixed with the crisp, sterile smell of disinfectant in the training room. Twelve years I've been in rooms like this, asking men and women to put me back together so I can go out and break myself again for the love of the game.
Maybe it's time to apply that same determination to the rest of my life. To become the man I want to be, not just the one everyone expects.
"Ice bath time, Mac," Dave calls from the doorway. "Doctor's orders."
Sully chuckles. "Duty calls. Think about what I said, yeah? About the speech. About all of it."
I nod, swinging my legs off the table. "Thanks, Sully."
